


Kiaa'meral

by MiaCooper



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-23
Updated: 2016-06-22
Packaged: 2018-07-16 08:53:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7260931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiaCooper/pseuds/MiaCooper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Janeway agrees to an unusual trade with a race of telepathic aliens, and dips a toe into seven possibilities.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Negotiation

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve borrowed or extrapolated little bits and pieces of storylines, character histories and occasionally dialogue from various episodes of VOY, TNG and DS9, as well as hints of Mosaic. Thanks to chakoteya.net for the transcripts and Memory Alpha for being, as always, a brilliant reference source.
> 
> Enormous thanks to Mary S for the beta. I haven’t had a beta in years, and she’s been spectacular!
> 
> Also, it tickles me to let Susan Gibney finally have her chance to captain Voyager, even for a little while.
> 
>  **Warning**  
>  Most of this work is PG-ish, but there’s some heavy stuff in a couple of chapters, hence the "Explicit" rating and the archive warnings. I’ll list content warnings at the beginning of those chapters in case you want to skip them. You'll still get the gist if you skip them, although I'd prefer you didn't :)
> 
>  **Disclaimer**  
>  Paramount’s universe; fanfic’s playground.

**I.**  
**Negotiation**

As she rubs at her temples and drains her third cup of coffee in an hour, Kathryn Janeway reflects that, thanks to the Kh’Laan, diplomatic negotiation is fast rising in the list of her least favourite duties of command.

“How much longer until we beam down for the next session?” she asks her tactical officer, and Tuvok doesn’t have to check the chrono to respond.

“Seventeen minutes, Captain.” He folds his hands over the PADD in his lap. “It is to be hoped that this conference will settle the final points of our negotiation.”

She arches an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me they’re even getting to _you_ , Tuvok.” She rises from her desk to save him the trouble of deflecting her accusation and moves to the couch, rubbing the tension at her nape. “All right, I’m ready. Let’s hope the Doctor has something stronger in his hypospray when we get back this time. I don’t mind telling you the last one barely touched my headache.”

Tuvok sits regally beside her. “I regret that my methods are causing you pain.”

“It’s a necessary inconvenience.” She sighs and turns to face him. “Go ahead, Commander.”

Her eyes close automatically as he reaches for her face, his long fingers unerringly finding the correct points on her temple, cheekbone and jaw. As he speaks the words that will join his mind to hers, she allows herself a brief moment to ruefully reflect that if she never hears the words my mind to your mind again it will be too soon, and then the first tendrils of Vulcan equilibrium unfurl inside her brain and render the emotion irrelevant.

=/\=

It takes all of her considerable control, even bolstered as it is by Vulcan assistance, to ruthlessly smother the rage that threatens to rise at the Kh’Laan’s latest demand.

“First Prelate Mekhaal, the minds of my crew are not for sale.”

::Sale is an inaccurate description of our request,:: Mekhaal retorts telepathically.

“Trade, then. Loan. However you wish to describe it, your request is denied.”

::You would be wise to reconsider. No harm would come to your crew.::

“Be that as it may, my answer is the same. We will not submit to telepathic control.”

::A curious statement, given your acquiescence to your companion’s techniques.::

“That’s different.” She pauses, unwilling to explain further, and feels a _nudge_ at the corners of her mind: Mekhaal, the dirty dog, reminding her that he could break through her mental fortifications without lifting a telepathic finger, could surge over and through them like a tsunami breaching a sea wall.

But that’s not what he wants. He wants the _kiaa’meral_ , which as she understands it, requires its subjects’ compliance. He wants her, and Voyager’s crew, to willingly allow the Kh’Laan into their minds, their innermost thoughts and dreams and fears. He has been quite clear that their consent will ensure his people a much more satisfactory experience.

She tries harder to white out her anger; it won’t serve her. “We must have something else you desire in return for safe passage.”

::If safe passage is all you want, we will grant it in place of the other concessions you have demanded from us.::

“Without your dilithium, safe passage will be irrelevant. We won’t make it a third of the way through your territory.” _As you well know_ , she thinks, viciously. _And I’ve already made far too many concessions as it is_.

::A quandary indeed, Captain Janeway.::

The smug self-satisfaction in Mekhaal’s telepathic voice is unmistakable and she forces herself not to react. “Our holographic technology, then,” she concedes, “in return for safe passage.” It is, after all, not the first time she’s offered this technology in trade, though she hates this damned quadrant all the more for that forced circumvention of the prime directive.

::What need would we have of this technology? It represents a juvenile pastime for an unimaginative culture dependent on external factors for entertainment.::

She swallows the insult; what’s one more, on top of the feast of them she’s been forced to ingest these past few days? “It’s far more than that. We use holography in tactical training exercises, medical applications…”

::Our medicine is, naturally, far more advanced than your own. And we have no need to rely on holographic technology to achieve tactical superiority. Our mental prowess is more than adequate in this area.::

Having been treated to several demonstrations of the Kh’Laan’s mental prowess, she is forced to concede this point. She mentally adjusts her previous no-go list of Voyager’s unique assets. What could these people possibly want that she hasn’t already offered up in exchange for the food and resources critical to continuing their journey? Replicators, transporters, bioneural circuitry, the specifications for the failed quantum slipstream drive?

::You have nothing else we want.:: Mekhaal’s interruption of her internal catalogue is peremptory and lacks even the faintest pretence of civility. ::Our previous agreements are now void. Allow us to bond with the minds of your crew, or our negotiations are terminated and we will commence hostile action.::

The stare she levels at the frail and shrouded body of the telepathic First Prelate has felled far stronger opponents, and the fact that he can further read the iron will behind it should only add to its effect. It does not. For perhaps the first time since she learned to employ that glare, Kathryn finds it elicits only scorn in her opponent. He speaks inside her mind again. ::Choose quickly, Captain. I grow weary of your prevarication.::

“I will not submit my crew to this _kiaa’meral_ ,” she repeats forcefully. “But I am willing to compromise.”

Mekhaal doesn’t deign to reply; he simply waits.

“I’ll allow you into my mind and my mind only, if you agree to reinstate the trades we have already negotiated and allow Voyager safe passage through Kh’Laan space.”

“Captain.” Tuvok speaks for the first time since this meeting began - a serious breach of protocol, but it appears that in this instance, interspecies diplomacy is superseded by Starfleet duty. “I must caution you against this course of action –”

::It is decided.:: Mekhaal cuts him off, speaking the phrase that has finalised each of their previous discussions. ::We will commence immediately.::

“Wait.” She holds up a hand. “First Prelate, I would appreciate it if you would explain the process. My people will need to be assured I won’t be harmed.”

Mekhaal inclines his head. ::You will accompany me to the Reading Chamber. Your body will be submerged in a suspension fluid and connected to a system that will cater for your physical needs. The _kiaa’meral_ will be performed by seven members of the Ministry. Each will explore a different aspect of your memories, your probable actions, your very nature. You may experience these explorations passively, as if you were watching a performance, or more actively, as you would a form of entertainment such as those on your holodecks or a particularly lucid dream. It is possible they may seem almost indistinguishable from reality. Your physiology and the peculiarities of your brain structure are unfamiliar to us; it is impossible to predict exactly how you will react until the _kiaa’meral_ begins. However, you may be assured you will be quite safe. There have been minimal occurrences of aliens suffering adverse effects during the process.::

Kathryn doesn’t spare Tuvok a glance; she can, unlike Mekhaal, predict quite accurately how the Vulcan is reacting to this little speech. He does not disappoint. “First Prelate, as Captain Janeway’s chief of security, I am responsible for her safety. I will require more information on the hazards this process might pose to the Captain, however minimal you claim them to be.”

Mekhaal is clearly impatient, but complies. ::The process is intensive. Some species emerge in a state of mental and physical exhaustion and require a short period of recuperation, up to several days. We have encountered a small number of species that have undergone training to deflect telepathy and thus proved highly resistant to the _kiaa’meral_. Members of those species who undertook the process suffered permanent brain damage. There is also, in extremely rare circumstances, a minuscule risk of death.::

“Please elaborate on these circumstances,” Tuvok requests.

::One or two species have been known to become so fundamentally linked to the situations experienced during the _kiaa’meral_ that their brainwave patterns have synchronised to those of the Ministry member guiding them. In these atypical instances, the subject believes himself to be experiencing absolute reality. Upon completion of the process, when the guide disengages from the _kiaa’meral_ , the subject believes he is experiencing the end of his life and is unable to disassociate from the process. Brain activity ceases and death is instantaneous.::

While knowing the risks – and she knew there would be risks – is of some help to Kathryn, who is uncomfortable with the unknown, she can’t help her level of anxiety building rather than lessening at Mekhaal’s clinical explanation. She is also well aware that Tuvok’s aversion to risk is far more vigorous than her own, and particularly so when that risk applies to her. “How long is this process expected to take?” she asks, before the Vulcan can waste his breath trying to talk her out of this.

::It varies, depending on the subject’s innate level of resistance to the process and the guides’ interest in exploring certain permutations of the subject’s neurology or personality. The _kiaa’meral_ has been known to last for less than an hour or more than a month. Most encompass several days.::

Kathryn fervently hopes that the Kh’Laan find her deeply uninteresting.

::Your officer will return immediately to your ship,:: Mekhaal continues. ::We will allow your people to monitor your condition remotely.::

“Given the risks you have described, and the fact that you are unfamiliar with human physiology,” Tuvok interjects, “I request that a member of Voyager’s crew be allowed to observe this process, and render medical aid if it is required.”

::No outsiders are permitted to observe the process directly,:: Mekhaal retorts, then appears to concede. ::However, there is precedent to allow the presence of a _tak’aan_ ; a support person. We will allow one crewmember to remain planetside. The subject often returns to wakefulness between sessions. If this occurs, the _tak’aan_ may be allowed to converse with the subject and offer assistance to her, if assistance is required.::

“Commander Tuvok will act as my _tak’aan_ for the first session,” Kathryn says. “If the process encompasses more than a few hours, however, he will need to return to his duties. Is there precedent to replace the person acting as _tak’aan_?”

::That is permissible,:: Mekhaal allows. ::However, during the process, any attempt at communication from your ship that is not directly related to an exchange of crewmembers acting as _tak’aan_ will be disregarded. Your people must attempt no interference of any kind, or our agreement is forfeit and we will take immediate action against your ship.::

“I assume that if hostilities were to ensue, returning me to my ship would not be a high priority,” Kathryn says drily.

::You assume correctly, Captain Janeway. I trust I have answered your questions to your satisfaction.:: She feels that _nudge_ again, and understands that Mekhaal’s apparent willingness to satisfy their curiosity is an indulgence he allows them only to ensure her compliance, and that any further delay will likely result in the First Prelate ending their negotiations with violence.

She nods. “Tuvok, while I’m undergoing this process, please relay the situation to Commander Chakotay. Inform him that he should implement protocol Epsilon Seven Alpha.”

She knows that Tuvok is aware that this protocol has been devised to cover situations where there is a reasonable chance that the captain may be permanently lost to a superior force. It will deactivate her command codes and transfer command to the first officer permanently, unless invalidated by another protocol that can be activated only by her. It will also release a number of directives for Chakotay’s eyes only, and only to be accessed in the incontrovertible event of her death or other permanent removal from duty – orders and information limited to Starfleet officers of captain’s rank and above, confidential log entries she has made over the past six years, instructions for future communications with Starfleet, a message she has prepared for him and him alone … Kathryn swallows, hoping he won’t have cause to play that message. She has always known there’s a high probability that he would someday have to watch it, given the precarious nature of their journey through this unholy quadrant and her own, much lamented appetite for risk. She only hopes that, should he be forced to open it, it doesn’t hurt him as much as she fears it will.

“Captain.” Tuvok’s voice is quiet, and there is nothing more he needs to say.

“I know.” She smiles, laying her hand on his arm. “I’ll see you soon, old friend.”

When Tuvok has returned to the ship in a shimmer of blue light, Kathryn turns to Mekhaal. “All right, First Prelate. I’m ready.”

=/\=

In the darkened chamber, seven slender, hooded Kh’Laan silently ring the bath-like vessel filled with luminescent, vaguely pinkish fluid. Declining the hands offered to assist her, Kathryn steps naked into the tub, lowering herself into the fluid. Two white-clad Kh’Laan appear, seemingly from nowhere, and insert needles into her inner elbow, neck and abdomen, attaching them to tubes that lead below the tub. One puts a hand on her shoulder and she allows the pressure to sink her body into the fluid, her head resting on the lip of the tub.

She tries to concentrate on her surroundings, to analyse the procedure, to remain scientifically detached, but she has to admit to herself that she is afraid.

The light dims further; she can’t see the ceiling or the edges of the room. She watches as a substance flows through the line snaking into her arm. She feels a tingle in her veins, a burning; she takes a gasping breath as the liquid fire rushes through her body, arching her back, leaving in its wake a trembling exhilaration.

One of the Kh’Laan steps forward, places his hand on her forehead. She can’t see his face. She feels drowsy, comforted, secure, and although some part of her knows she was frightened a few moments ago, she can no longer remember why.

“Now what?” she asks, and is mildly surprised to realise she hasn’t spoken aloud.

::Now you sleep,:: comes the reply, and Kathryn closes her eyes.

 


	2. Fear

**II.**  
**Fear**

She can barely hear Captain Amasov bellowing orders over the bedlam on the bridge. The last hit took out weapons and propulsion, and the ship-wide comm went down in the middle of the engineering report. Her comrades lie dead and dying around her, unseeing eyes brought momentarily and grotesquely to life with each red pulse of light. The alert klaxon blares in time with the sluggish beat of her heart. She believes that this is the last day of her life; it seems only fitting that it should feel like the longest.

She drags herself to her chair, breath rasping in her lungs. Her knee is dislocated, she has several broken ribs, and she suspects there are other injuries: there is a tearing agony deep inside that can only mean organ damage. Blood drips irritatingly into her eye from a still-gushing head wound and she shakes her head to clear it, then has to wait for the nausea to subside. “Commander,” she hears, and she turns toward Amasov. “Any word from Engineering?”

“Nothing, sir,” she yells across the divide of the centre console. “I’ll send a runner –”

She is cut off by whoever is now manning Tactical shouting a warning, and the dark red light on the bridge is suffused with green. The klaxon is abruptly silenced, the shouts and screams of her crewmates die away. An unearthly static fills the sudden quiet. She feels her guts clench.

 _We are the Borg_.

All the briefings, all her nightmares have not prepared her for this. The Endeavour is trapped in the cube’s tractor beam, pinned like a moth to a board. If she listens very carefully, she can almost hear the whispering death-throes of its fidgeting wings.

 _Lower your shields and surrender your ships_.

Her hands are shaking. Behind her she can hear someone praying in a language she doesn’t understand. A man is weeping; keening, really. She feels the echo of it in her own desert-dry throat. She almost wishes it was over, just so that she wouldn’t have to be so afraid anymore.

 _Your biological and technological distinctiveness will be added to our own_.

Her console beeps and she turns to it automatically; it’s a warning: shields have failed. She hears Amasov cursing quietly, fluently, beside her.

 _You will be assimilated_.

Captain Amasov rises from his chair. She fancies she can hear his joints creaking, but he stands erect and proud. She feels herself straightening as well, drawing on some wellspring of courage she didn’t know she had until she saw it in her commanding officer. He addresses the faceless multitude of voices on the cube. “We will not be assimilated,” he roars. “We’ll die first.”

 _Death is irrelevant_ , return the Borg, and she watches as a green pulse of fire curves from the cube’s launchers and grows ever larger on the viewscreen.

The torpedo pummels its target, and the Endeavour lurches sickeningly, listing to one side amid the groaning of its hull. “Inertial dampeners are offline,” cries the ensign at Tactical. Gripping the arms of her chair, she watches in horror as Amasov and several other crewmen tumble head over end across the deck like so many dandelion clocks. “Structural integrity is failing.”

Amasov hauls himself upright against the helm, bleeding profusely from a head wound and favouring his left arm. “Abandon ship,” he shouts. “All hands to escape pods.”

Able-bodied crewmen scramble to obey, lifting or dragging the injured with them. She stays in her chair, trying frantically to re-establish the internal comm system so she can relay the escape order below decks.

“That means you too, Kathryn,” her captain bellows, and when she shakes her head he strides over, bracing himself against the listing of the dying ship, and grabs her roughly by the elbow. “Get out now, while you still can.”

“I’m trying to –” she starts, but he shakes his head. “No time. Go!”

She goes.

She makes it to an escape pod off the bridge, noting that most of the pods on Deck One have been ejected and praying that Amasov is right behind her. She sets a frantic course away from the crippled ship and immediately finds she has to pilot the pod manually through the debris field. How many Starfleet ships have been destroyed here today? How many lives lost?

She guides the pod behind the wreckage of the Melbourne. Through the viewscreen she watches as the Borg ignore the half-destroyed hulk of the ship that has been her home for the past year in favour of scooping up the pods that have just escaped it. Sickened, horrified, she can almost hear the terrified screams of her crewmates as they’re drawn inexorably into the uncaring cube.

And then her pod lurches and she loses helm control, and she realises she is about to share their fate.

She tries scattering the tractor beam, remodulating the pod’s hull, even fires ineffectual phasers at the cube’s tractor emitter, but it’s no use. She is pulled into hell. A drone cuts through the pod’s hull and clamps its unforgiving hand around her arm, dragging her sobbing and fighting into the sour heat of gridlocked metal. She can hear screams and smell blood. She is taken to an assimilation chamber, a room of untold horrors; she watches as a young man in a gold uniform is dumped unceremoniously onto a table, his moans cut short as tubules plunge into his neck, his arm sawn off above the elbow, his skin mottling grey.

She is next. The drone beside her places an implacable hand on her shoulder and presses her to her knees; she looks up at it, begging, pleading for mercy, for some scrap of humanity. Finding none, the last of her tattered courage fails her, and as the tubules bite into her throat she can only whimper. The nanoprobes course into her bloodstream in a wave of devastating agony and she drops her gaze to her hands, sees the polluting grey march across the white of her skin, and as she casts one last prayer to the universe for death instead of this fate worse than death, she thinks, _but this isn’t right, this isn’t how it happened_ …

=/\=

… and she bursts into consciousness with her throat still raw from the endless screaming, gasping, gulping for breath.

“Captain,” says Tuvok softly, and she turns wide eyes to him, crouched beside her in the chamber.

“Tuvok,” she chokes out, and as she involuntarily grasps for his hand she recognises that her own is white and smooth, her skin unmottled, her veins undarkened by Borg nanoprobes. “Oh, God.”

“What did you see?” he asks.

“The battle of Wolf 359,” she says shakily, feeling her breathing returning to normal as her conscious mind asserts itself over the horror of what she’s just experienced. “I was first officer on the Endeavour.”

“The only ship to survive destruction during the battle,” he notes.

Her mouth twists. “Yes, although half the crew was lost and the ship itself heavily damaged. I made it to an escape pod, as did Captain Amasov and the remaining crew, and we were retrieved by a transport ship a few hours after the cube had been disabled. At least, that’s what happened in reality.”

“But not what you saw.”

“No.” She drags a shaking arm across her mouth. “In this … session … my pod was tractored into the cube, and I was assimilated.” Her hand tightens reflexively on Tuvok’s. “It felt so absolutely real. I saw other Starfleet officers being assimilated. I felt how hot it was inside the cube. I could smell the blood and servo fluid.” She shudders. “I could feel the nanoprobes entering my bloodstream. I was praying for death, and then –” She shakes her head. “I don’t know. Something told me it wasn’t real, and I woke up.”

Tuvok is quiet for a moment, then observes, “It is fortunate that you did. If First Prelate Mekhaal is correct, your brainwave pattern was likely becoming synchronised with that of the Kh’Laan guiding you through the session. Had the synchronisation been complete, you would have died when your guide disconnected.”

“At that point, I would have welcomed it,” she says softly.

As her heartrate slows to normal, she becomes more aware of her surroundings. She looks around. The chamber remains darkened, but she can’t see any Kh’Laan in the room. She and Tuvok are alone. Glancing down, she remembers that she’s naked, and draws her knees up to her chest, wrapping her free arm around them. She can’t seem to let herself release Tuvok’s hand. Not just yet.

“Captain, given your reaction to this first session, continuing this process presents an unacceptable level of risk to your safety.”

“Perhaps.” She manages a smile. “But when have you ever known that to stop me? I can’t back out now, Tuvok. If I do, the Kh’Laan will destroy Voyager. You know I won’t allow that to happen.” She squeezes his hand one last time, reflecting as she does that the fact he has allowed her this physical contact for several minutes is evidence of his concern for her, and lets go. “How long was I out, anyway?”

“Eleven hours and twenty-three minutes,” he replies.

“ _What_?” His answer steals her breath again. “But it felt like barely an hour!”

“I requested an audience with First Prelate Mekhaal when your session passed the six-hour mark. I was … concerned,” Tuvok allows, and she imagines fleetingly how concerned a non-Vulcan would have been in his place; how concerned, she realises, the crew on her ship must be at this moment. _Chakotay_ … Before she can allow herself to explore that dangerous train of thought, Tuvok continues, “Mekhaal hypothesised that your alien neurology was sufficiently unfamiliar to your guide that he found it difficult to make the necessary connection. Additionally, your guide may have been seeking a scenario of sufficient resonance to you to achieve his aim of exploring his chosen aspect of your nature.”

“Well,” she mutters, “it seems he found one. Clearly, he was intending to experience how I react to fear. I wonder what my next guide will choose.”

“It is to be hoped that your next session will prove less taxing.”

“Yes, it is.” She touches his hand again, once, lightly. “Tuvok, you need to return to the ship. Give Chakotay your report, ask him to send down my next _tak’aan_ , and get some rest.”

“Understood, Captain.” Tuvok rises, and then to her utter surprise, she feels him lightly touching her mind with his own. A sense of calm steals over her and she smiles up at him. “Thank you,” she whispers, and follows him with her gaze as he turns toward the door. As he leaves, the seven shrouded Kh’Laan file back into the room, and one steps forward and places her hand on Kathryn’s forehead.

 


	3. Happiness

**III.**   
**Happiness**

The scent of fresh-brewed coffee rouses her slowly from a contented dream, and she stretches languorously, enjoying the rasp of crisp sheets against her skin. Sunlight is streaming into the bedroom through the open window, and she can hear the soft whine of summer bees in the lilac bushes outside.

“You’re finally awake,” says a familiar voice, and she turns to the bedroom doorway with a smile.

“I hope you’ve brought me coffee,” she teases, and as he holds up the steaming mug she laughs. “I knew there was a reason I keep you around.”

He sets the mug on the bedside table and sits on the bed beside her. “And how are we this morning?” he asks. He drops a kiss on her cheek and slides his hand over her shoulder, following the curve of her arm, his hand coming to rest on the swell of her belly.

“ _We_ are just fine.” She answers his smile with one of her own, twining her fingers with his. “Your son has seen fit to spare me his usual morning acrobatics, so far. I may even get to enjoy that coffee before he starts jumping on my bladder.”

“Better drink it quickly, then,” he advises, grinning. “Our other acrobat has just about finished her breakfast, and I expect her to come running in here in three, two, one –”

Right on cue, she hears the quick-step thunder of small feet along the hallway, and her daughter bursts into the room and takes a flying leap toward the bed, shrieking with glee. Kathryn laughs even as she shifts to avoid taking the brunt of such enthusiasm. “Shannon, be careful,” she remonstrates, pulling her daughter into her arms. She ruffles the sandy curls the little girl has inherited from her father, pressing her cheek against them for the short moment the squirming child allows. “Happy birthday, baby,” she murmurs.

The peace doesn’t last long; Shannon bounces up declaring it’s time to open her gifts, and Kathryn takes a fortifying gulp of her cooling coffee and extends a hand so her husband can help her out of bed. He pretends to stagger backwards under her weight and she smacks his shoulder and laughs, and he hooks his arm around her waist as they head into the kitchen.

Once the wrapping paper has been cleared away and Shannon is playing happily with her new toys, Kathryn grumblingly takes a shower – she can no longer haul herself out of the bathtub without significant effort – and drifts onto the deck with a book, but the sun is warm and she finds her attention wandering, her eyes closing.

“I love you,” whispers a voice in her ear, and she smiles into the kiss he presses to her lips and looks up into eyes that her mind imagines as dark, but instead are blue.

“Mark,” she says involuntarily, wondering at her surprise; who else would be kissing her? She blinks it away and reaches a hand up to his face, her fingers idly tracing an imaginary pattern on his temple. “I love you, too,” she murmurs.

She has barely had to lift a finger to organise Shannon’s birthday party. Between them, Mark and her mother have done it all, citing Kathryn’s advanced state of pregnancy as their excuse, as though she hadn’t been working at her usual pace up until her leave started last week.

In fact, she’s still working, though she’s hiding it from Mark, knowing he’d gently chide her for it. She can’t help it; Starfleet has suffered too many losses in recent years. Too many captains and crews have been lost on active duty, and although she was promoted and removed from the frontlines shortly after she became pregnant with Shannon, she knows that the admiralty has suffered losses as well. Every officer counts in times like these. And so, once the party guests have left, while the adults in the family sip tea in the kitchen and Phoebe’s children chase Shannon in the yard, Kathryn slips into her office to call up her messages.

She curls up in the armchair Mark bought her specially to ensure her comfort while she worked through the night, as has long been her habit, activating the PADD balanced on her knee. She scrolls through meeting requests her aide has already skilfully deflected, invitations to official functions and think tanks, situation reports on the post-war rebuilding programs and humanitarian aid excursions, a message from Owen Paris … He looks haggard, devastated. Her stomach twists in concern and she plays the message.

Voyager, the ship she’d almost been assigned to command six years ago, has been lost with all hands in the Delta quadrant. Their most recent transmission through the Pathfinder frequency was an automated message sent from a subspace communications buoy. In it, Paris explains, Voyager’s captain, Erika Benteen, describes a battle with an alien species, an attempt to flee at warp, a failure in the navigational system and an uncontrollable descent at speed toward the rocky surface of a moon. Benteen manages to say a few words about the courage of her crew before the message ends – just in time, Kathryn presumes, for the buoy to be launched.

She feels tears prick her eyes. Paris is clearly mourning the son he lost, then found, and has just lost again. She is not immune to the personal loss this message brings either; a treasured friend was on that ship. She nearly was, herself. If she and Mark hadn’t already set their wedding date to coincide with Voyager’s maiden mission, Kathryn would have been her captain, and she, instead of Benteen, would have been the one to die leading her crew through the Delta quadrant, instead of counting her blessings at this charmed life she’s living …

“What are you doing in here?”

She raises her eyes from the PADD. Mark sees her distress and his smile fades. He crouches beside her chair, taking her hand. “What is it, Kath?”

“It’s Voyager,” she whispers. “Admiral Paris picked up a message on the Pathfinder frequency. Voyager was destroyed. They’re all dead.”

She’s sobbing now, and Mark pulls her into his arms, soothing her with gentle hands on her back. But her sobs don’t quiet, and she can’t seem to catch her breath. _They’re all dead_ , her mind repeats. _All dead_.

“Kath.” She can hear the worry in Mark’s voice; she’s been through terrible losses before, even lost an entire squadron under her command once during the war, but he’s never seen her like this. “Talk to me.”

“I should have been on that ship. I should be on that ship –”

_I’m supposed to be on that ship_.

=/\=

There are still tears in her eyes when she drifts into consciousness this time. She opens them slowly, blinking the tears away, feeling the last of the sobs racking her body. A hand – slender, pale, human – touches her own.

“Captain.” The voice is cool, familiar.

She wipes the last of the tears from her face and pulls herself upright in the tub, turning to her _tak’laan_. “Seven,” she murmurs, forcing her voice not to hitch.

“Are you damaged?”

“No. No, I’m fine. It was just – intense.” Her hand slides onto her stomach and, finding it flat instead of swollen with life, she feels momentarily bereft. “I was at home, on Earth. I had a husband and a family, and I was happy.”

“You would prefer that life to the one you are living now.”

Seven is careful to keep any accusation from her tone, but Kathryn hears it nonetheless. “No,” she says firmly, “not at all. I think that’s why I came out of the session. I’d received a message about Voyager being destroyed with all hands, and it distressed me so much that I woke up.” She takes Seven’s cool fingers in her own. “As much as I want those things I dreamed about – home, love, family – it didn’t feel as real as the agony I felt when I thought Voyager had been destroyed.”

Seven nods, and her voice softens. “You prefer an unpleasant reality to a pleasurable fabrication.”

Kathryn can’t help smiling. “In that we’re alike, Seven. But my reality isn’t unpleasant. Uncertain, stressful and sometimes dangerous, yes. But I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

Seven raises an eyebrow. “I believe I understand. You have forged an emotional connection to Voyager and its crew through close contact and the pursuit of a common goal. It is your collective, in a sense.”

“Yes,” Kathryn says softly. “It’s where I belong. And so do you.”

She sees the ghost of a smile curve the former Borg’s lips, and then Seven stands. “I am gratified that you appear unharmed. I must return to the ship.”

“How long was I out this time?”

“Six point three hours. I must return to regenerate and attend to my station. My replacement will arrive shortly.”

Kathryn nods, and allows the corners of her mouth to twitch. “Thank you, crewman. Dismissed.”

Seven leaves, and Kathryn slides back down into the lukewarm fluid as the Kh’Laan return to the chamber. The hand that touches her forehead this time is male. She hopes briefly that her next vision will be more like the second than the first, and then she closes her eyes.

 


	4. Vengeance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter contains character deaths, strong violence and non-consensual sex. Please skip to the next chapter if you don’t want to read this or are under 18.

**IV.**  
**Vengeance**

She isn’t sure what hurts the most. Perhaps it’s her trembling, shackled arms, her wrists chafed and bloody from the restraints, shoulders strained and aching from bearing her own bodyweight as she hangs from the cable attached to the ceiling of the cell. Or maybe it’s her numb and battered feet, toes cramped from remaining _en pointe_ so as to minimise the agony of flattening her soles on the plasma-heated floor. What she does know is that her physical suffering is nothing compared to her mental and emotional distress.

And it’s nothing compared to the drawn-out, agonising pain she’s going to lavish on her tormentor, should she gain the slightest opportunity to do so.

After what she guesses has been several hours, the wretched screaming from the next cell has finally stopped, and all she can hope is that B’Elanna has lost consciousness from whatever agony they’ve been inflicting on her. She refuses to think about the more probable explanation: that she’s dead, like Seven, Ayala, Carey and the others whose lifeless bodies the black-suited soldiers have paraded one by one into her cell and dumped on the floor before her, giving her ample time to reflect on the fate she’s brought upon them, before eventually returning to clear each corpse away. At first she tried not to look, unable to bear the sight of her crewmen’s twisted bodies and rictus faces, but after they brought in Harry’s body something broke inside her and she realised that she had to look at them, had to force herself to take in every detail of their gruesome fates, because she deserves it. Because all of this is her fault.

Her cell door opens, and this time she doesn’t even try to straighten her posture, as she has each time it’s opened previously. When they dump B’Elanna’s body at her feet she doesn’t have to hold back hot and useless tears, because she doesn’t have any tears left. All she has is her hatred, white-hot and pure, and she’s keeping that to herself. She’s saving it all up for one man.

She knows she’ll see him again soon; he always turns up in her cell after one of the bodies arrives. He can’t seem to help it. It pleases him to see her like this – trapped, broken down, stripped naked in every sense of the word. Eventually, she knows, this will be his undoing. He’ll grow just that little bit too confident, he’ll underestimate her – again – and the instant his guard slips, she’ll be ready. She doesn’t know how she’s going to kill him, yet, but she will. Somehow.

She hears the door sliding open again, and he’s here, as she knew he would be. He’s smiling, that smile she can’t believe she once responded to with anything other than revulsion. “Captain Janeway,” he greets her. “I trust you’ve been enjoying the entertainment. The soundtrack is somewhat different to your Mahler, I admit, but it does have its own attraction.”

She fixes him with an expressionless stare.

“Not so talkative anymore, Captain? Are we boring you?” Kashyk jerks his head and two soldiers enter the room and drag away the body of her once-beautiful chief engineer. “Perhaps you’ll find it more exciting to watch, then.” He turns to address his soldiers. “Bring him in.”

She hears a scuffle and a scrape, and someone is dropped unceremoniously on the superheated floor before her. He can’t stifle a groan as contact with the floor burns through the fabric of his uniform, but he resumes his silence as Kashyk’s soldiers jerk him back to his feet. She doesn’t want to look; she doesn’t want to know who it is, which member of her crew she’s going to be forced to watch as they torture him. Kashyk takes her chin in gloved fingers and turns her face up, and she looks.

Somehow, she knew it would be him.

Chakotay’s eyes are clouded as his gaze meets hers, but she sees the flicker of rage as he recognises her. He spits blood on the floor in Kashyk’s direction. “Let her go.” His voice is roughened, weak, and she wonders what he’s already had to endure.

Kashyk laughs. “Touching, Commander, but I hardly think you’re in a position to make demands.” The soldiers fasten cuffs onto Chakotay’s wrists and raise his arms above his head, attaching the restraints to a cable descending from the ceiling. He’s facing Kathryn now, as trapped as she is. One soldier produces a knife and uses it to slice open Chakotay’s uniform jacket, turtleneck and undershirt. Kathryn can’t help biting down on a gasp as she sees the bruised and bloody mess they’ve made of his torso.

Kashyk notices. “Beatings are such an unsophisticated means of imposing one’s control, aren’t they? But your lapdog here did make rather a nuisance of himself when we boarded your ship. I’m afraid my men had little choice.” He leans in close, his breath fanning her face. “I prefer more subtle methods.”

He holds out a hand and the soldier places the knife in it.

“Leave him alone.” She’s surprised at the strength in her own voice. “It’s me you want. Let my crew go.”

“And deprive myself of the pleasure of watching you as they die?” Kashyk shakes his head. “You’re right about one thing, though, Captain. It is you I want.”

His gloved hand strokes over her breast, cups it as he pinches her nipple between his thumb and forefinger. She’s known this was coming, but now that it’s happening she finds she doesn’t care. If he’s touching her, he’s not concentrating his efforts on Chakotay. So she holds as still as she can on her trembling legs while he lingers over her body with the hand that’s not holding the knife.

She hears a roar, and her gaze snaps up as Chakotay braces his weight against his restraints and kicks out as far as he can, catching one of the soldiers across the midsection. She hears the crack of bone and hopes Chakotay has broken more than one of the soldier’s ribs. The Devore drops to the floor, and Kashyk hisses. “Get him to the medical bay,” he orders, and the second soldier drags his fallen comrade through the open door.

Kashyk strides over to Chakotay, who’s now slumped and hanging from his wrists, clearly exhausted. “That was unwise, Commander,” Kashyk says. He places the tip of the knife to Chakotay’s neck and Kathryn watches as a drop of blood wells out. Before she can protest, Kashyk glances over at her. “Oh, don’t worry, Captain, I’m not going to kill him yet. But he has annoyed me, and I can’t let that go unpunished.”

He draws back his arm, adjusts his aim and plunges the knife into Chakotay’s abdomen, twisting it upwards before pulling it back out. She can’t help screaming as Chakotay groans, blood gushing from the wound.

“God damn you, Kashyk,” she spits. “You said you weren’t going to kill him.”

“ _Yet_ ,” he reminds her. “It’ll take him hours to die from that injury, Captain. That gives us plenty of time.”

“Time for what?” She hates herself for asking.

Instead of answering, Kashyk moves back to her. “I’m going to let you down now, Captain. You’re not going to do anything unwise, or I’ll make sure the Commander’s last hours will be so wretched that he’ll wish I left him to bleed out on this floor. Do you understand?”

She hates him so much she’s shaking, but she gives him a short nod. Kashyk shoves the knife into his pocket and releases her wrists from the restraints, his gloved hand holding her arms immobile until he’s satisfied she isn’t going to attack him. Her feet burn as she lets her weight rest on the scalding floor, but that’s just the prelude to new insult as Kashyk places a hand at the back of her neck and pushes her down onto her hands and knees. She hisses at the fresh agony of new parts of her skin touching that floor, but she doesn’t protest.

“You’re going to want to pay attention for the next little while, Commander,” Kashyk says. Kathryn watches as Chakotay lifts his head and his pain-filled eyes focus on her, on her hands and knees in front of him. Then Kashyk moves behind her and unfastens his pants, and she’s shoved forward half a metre by the force of him thrusting himself inside her.

She lands on her forearms but she doesn’t even notice the misery of her tender flesh burning when it connects with the floor. All her senses are focused on the horrendous ripping pain inside her. She isn’t sure who’s screaming, her or Chakotay or maybe both of them. She can see Chakotay wrenching his arms against the cuffs, straining to get to her, but as Kashyk continues his assault, her vision blurs. She’d welcome unconsciousness at this point, except that she knows if she passes out he’ll only revive her, and in the meantime Chakotay or another of her crew will suffer. So she grits her teeth and forces herself to stay conscious and think. _Think_.

She remembers the knife.

His thrusts are getting faster, harder, the pace more jagged, and she knows she doesn’t have much time. She shifts her weight to her left arm, flexing her right wrist to bring back as much feeling as she can. She prays Devoran physiology is sufficiently similar to human for her desperate plan to work, and as she hears Kashyk’s breathing grow harsh and his thighs, pressed against the back of hers, begin to tremble, she throws all her weight onto her left side, wrenches her right hand behind her and into his pocket, grasps the knife, and plunges it into his right thigh.

His orgasmic cry chokes off into a grunt of disbelief. She feels the gush of blood over her hand as she twists the knife at a wicked angle, and she knows she has gambled correctly: she has severed his femoral artery. He slumps onto her back and she gathers her strength to flip him off her, scrambling away from him. She reaches for the knife handle sticking out of his leg and the fountain of dark blood that escapes the open wound makes her laugh. Kashyk turns his eyes to her and she doesn’t even hesitate before she plunges the bloody knife into his throat. He dies with a gurgle and she turns to Chakotay without sparing Kashyk another glance.

She uses the knife to pry open Chakotay’s restraints and supports him as he sags to the floor. She places her hands over the wound in his abdomen, trying to stem the blood flow, but her hands are soaked within seconds. His breathing is laboured, his face a sickly grey. There’s nothing she can do for him without medical equipment. “Chakotay,” she whispers, and his eyes open a little. “I’m going to get you some help.”

“No,” he chokes out. “No … point. Stay here. Stay … with me.”

Hate and anger rise in her like a boiling wave and she knows he’s right – he’s too far gone. But there’s one thing she can do now. She can find and kill the soldiers who did this to him, who tortured and killed her crew. She can take revenge.

She gets slowly, shakily to her feet, and at that moment the soldiers burst in through the door. She sees them take in the scene of carnage and Kashyk dead at her feet and she brings up the knife as one of them springs at her. Luck is on her side; he slips in the blood soaking the floor and stumbles onto her knife; she dispatches him quickly, then turns to the other. A smile spreads over her lips.

He tries to draw his weapon but she’s too quick for him; she kicks it out of his hand and it skitters into a corner. She scrambles for it, diving out of his reach, grabs the phaser and rolls upright. She points it at his chest. “Get on the floor. Face down, hands behind your head.”

He complies. She hears his grunt of pain as the skin of his face comes into contact with the blistering floor. Funny; she can’t feel the heat of it anymore.

She raises the phaser, intending to shoot him in the back of the head, then hesitates. A quick death is too good for him. She switches the phaser to her left hand, the knife to her right, and kneels beside the prone soldier. She lets him feel the point of the knife as she digs it into the back of his neck. He flinches. “You’re going to suffer,” she tells him softly, and begins to draw the knife through the fabric of his uniform. When the cloth is cut she shoves it aside. She places the blade against the first knob of his spine and applies pressure. Blood rushes out. The soldier jerks and groans.

“Kathryn,” she hears Chakotay rasp. “Don’t … do this.”

She ignores him. The knife cuts deeper. The soldier screams.

“Kathryn, stop!” Chakotay starts to drag himself toward her and she turns to look at him. “Why?” she asks, and she genuinely wants to know.

“Because … it’s wrong,” he whispers. “You’re not … a killer. This isn’t you.”

The soldier is moaning. Kathryn looks back at him. She did this; she caused him pain. She feels sick and she doesn’t want to hurt him anymore. She drops the knife.

 _This isn’t me_ …

=/\=

She bolts upright, throws her upper body over the edge of the tub and vomits until she’s trembling with exhaustion and spitting only bile. As she gasps for air amid the shudders she feels a gentle hand on her back, hears a soothing and familiar voice telling her she’s safe, it’s over and she’s safe.

 _He’s alive_.

The shudders slow and she coughs, wiping a hand across her mouth, and pulls herself back into the tub, drawing her knees to her chest. Chakotay is watching her, his eyes dark with concern.

“The crew?” she asks him, needing to know. “Harry, B’Elanna? Are they all right?”

“Of course they are.” He reaches tentatively for her hand and she lets him take it. “What happened, Kathryn? What did you see?”

She thinks of what she’d seen, _what she’d done_ , and she can’t look at him anymore. “I’m not sure you really want to know. How long was the session this time?”

“A little under seventeen hours,” he answers, and her eyes widen. She looks at him again and realises he looks as tired as she feels.

“You’ve been waiting all this time?”

“I wouldn’t leave you alone down here, Kathryn.”

And she knows he wouldn’t, no matter what it cost him.

“Tuvok is on the bridge,” he assures her, as if his absence from the command chair is what she’s concerned about. “Voyager is fine, and everyone is all right. Now, can you tell me about it? What did they make you see?”

She rests her head on her knees for a moment, mustering her composure. “We were in a Devore prison,” she begins, and feels him stiffen. “They’d boarded Voyager, captured the crew. I was in a cell. They made me listen to the crew being tortured to death. Each time they killed one of them, they would bring the body into my cell. He was trying to break me.”

“Kashyk?” Chakotay’s voice is deceptively quiet. She nods. “And then what happened?”

“Then,” she tries to pull air into her lungs, “he brought you in. He stabbed you in front of me. You were bleeding out but you were conscious, and he made you watch him. With me.” She feels his fingers tighten convulsively on her own as he realises what she means, and hastens on; she can’t stop now or she’ll be too afraid to tell him the rest. “I got hold of a weapon and I stabbed him to death. Then I killed one of the soldiers, and I was going to kill the other one but I decided I wanted him to suffer, like they’d made the crew suffer. Like they’d made you suffer. Nothing else mattered, Chakotay,” she emphasises. “Nothing but vengeance. But you stopped me, and the session ended.”

She can hear his teeth grinding.

“I thought I hated Kashyk before, Chakotay, when it was real, I mean. When he was after the telepaths. But I didn’t know the meaning of hatred until just now.” She presses her fingers to her temples. “I’m having trouble distinguishing between what was real and what they made me see. This didn’t happen after the other two sessions.”

He’s quiet for a moment, then, “You said I stopped you. How?”

“You said what I was doing wasn’t right. That it wasn’t me. So I put down the knife.”

“Then you stopped yourself,” he says with gentle emphasis. “No matter what they made you see – how they made you feel – you know what’s right. You _do_ what’s right. Remember that, Kathryn, when you’re asking yourself what’s real.”

She feels tears spring to her eyes, and smiles at him. Of course he understands.

“How are you feeling?” he asks after a while.

“Better, thanks to you.”

“Good. I’m getting you out of here.”

She stares at him. “I can’t leave.”

“You can’t stay,” he counters. “I’m stopping this process. It’s taking too much of a toll on you. God, Kathryn, if I’d known what they planned to put you through –”

“You’d have done exactly the same in my place. If I don’t go through with this, I put Voyager in jeopardy. I have to finish this process, and you need to get back to the ship. That’s an order, Commander,” she adds when she can see he’s about to object.

He’s not happy, but he says “Understood, Captain,” and she lets go of his hand.

He stands to leave, then turns back, and in a rush of words she suspects he’s been holding back for years, he says, “Kathryn, what you felt – the anger, the hate, the burning need for revenge – I’ve been where you were. I’ve done those things you wanted to do. There was nobody to stop me, and I didn’t stop myself. If it weren’t for you, I might still be that man. So when this is over, if you find yourself thinking about this session, I want you to call me. Day or night. Promise me.”

“I promise, Chakotay,” she says softly, and then the seven shadows drift back into the room and she submits to the cool hand on her forehead and slips into the next reality they create for her.

 


	5. Curiosity

**V.**  
**Curiosity**

“Well?” Her travelling companion taps his foot at her impatiently. “What do you want to see next? The fall of Rome, the Tarlethan golden age? Fluidic space?”

Kathryn is still breathless from their trip to the galactic core, but she forces herself to focus. “Any and all of those sound incredible. But I’m worried about him.”

“What on earth for?”

“He’s our son,” she says pointedly. “I’m his mother, and I’ve barely spent a minute with him since he was … born, if that’s what you’d call it.”

“Kathy.” She can’t miss the annoyance in his voice now. “It’s not as though you need to suckle him and sing him lullabies. He’s not a human baby.”

“He’s half-human,” she points out. “And forgive me, Q, but I thought your whole purpose for having a child with me was to bring human values to the Continuum. I can hardly help you do that if I don’t spend any time with my own son, teaching him what those human values are.”

Q rolls his eyes. “Oh, all right then. Go spend some time with the little brat. And make it snappy.” He snickers at his own joke as he raises his hand to snap his fingers.

Kathryn grabs his arm before he can complete the action. “Q,” she says sternly. “He’s going to need a paternal influence.”

“Kathy …”

“Don’t _Kathy_ me. It’s not just a father he needs. It’s a Q. I can teach him about compassion and integrity and compromise, but you’re going to have to explain to him what it means to be omnipotent. He’s supposed to be the Continuum’s great white hope for peace and change. I can’t help him become that on my own.”

“But I’m a Q, not a teacher,” Q whines.

“Then you’d better expand your capabilities.” Kathryn reflects for a moment on the irony of bullying an omnipotent entity into learning new skills. “Besides, as a wise human once said: with great power comes great responsibility.”

Q snorts. “Only a human would consider _that_ wisdom. All right, all right,” he holds up a hand as Kathryn opens her mouth. “I’ll help you instruct the little squirt, but only if we have some fun first.” Before she can object, Q snaps his fingers …

… and she finds herself encased inside a … _coffin_? she wonders. Whatever it is, it’s unsettling and she doesn’t like it. “Q,” she protests. “What is this place?”

Q’s head pops mistily through the lid of the coffin; the rest of his body remains outside. “You’re about to experience what the Vhnori amusingly refer to as the journey to the next emanation.”

“I remember the Vhnori,” Kathryn says, surprised. “They place their dead inside a sarcophagus and the bodies are transported through a subspace vacuole onto an asteroid. We never discovered where the transports originated.”

“Well, that part isn’t important. It’s the trip through the subspace vacuole, as you call it – a predictably scientific description, by the way, Kathy, and just as droll as the Vhnori’s tortured religious beliefs – that makes this fun. Hang on, it’s about to get bumpy.”

She hears a high-pitched whine as the sarcophagus shudders and melts around her, and then she’s rushing headlong through an ocean of stars of every conceivable colour, her brain filled with an unearthly music, her whole body tingling. It’s the most beautiful thing that has ever happened to her. She opens her arms and her mind and her heart and throws herself into pure joy, and for one perfect moment all her questions are answered. And then it stops, and she’s blinded by layers of gauze wrapping her face and body. She struggles to extricate herself and sits up to find Q squatting on his haunches beside her, grinning.

“My God,” says Kathryn, blinking. “Harry never told me it felt like _that_.”

“Well, to be fair, he was dead at the time,” Q reasons. “It feels quite different when you’re immortal.”

“Is that what it’s like to be Q?”

“Ah, Kathy,” he smiles. “Would you like to find out?”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s been done before,” he answers. “Rarely, of course. The last time a mortal was made Q was six billion years ago. Well, except for Riker, but that didn’t take.”

“What about Amanda?”

He waves a hand dismissively. “She was always Q. She just didn’t want to admit it. So, what do you say? You’re already immortal. Why not go all the way?” He waggles his eyebrows at her.

She considers it. “If I agree, I wouldn’t be human any more. What about the baby?”

“He’ll be fine. Q will take care of him.”

Kathryn snorts. “Q still hates me for stealing her mate, as she defines it. I hardly think she’ll be delighted to play nanny to our child.”

Q rolls his eyes. “Kathy, Kathy, Kathy. Aren’t you tired of always being so _responsible_? First it was that rickety little ship and your motley crew, now it’s the offspring. Stop fretting for once in your dreary existence and have some _fun_.”

“ _Speaking_ of my crew,” she fixes him with a glare, against which he is irritatingly unmoved, “you never did tell me if you kept your end of the bargain. I need to know, Q. Did you send them home? Are they safe?”

“Well,” Q smirks, “that would be telling, wouldn’t it?”

“Q,” she snaps. “The only reason I agreed to your ridiculous scheme to conceive a child with you was because you promised me you’d get Voyager safely back to Earth.”

“And here I thought it was my devastating good looks,” he huffs. “Not to mention the minor side benefit of stopping a civil war in the Continuum. But if you insist on knowing the fate of that stolid lump of a first officer and the rest of your forlorn little band of travellers, I suppose I can arrange to satisfy your curiosity.”

“I’m waiting.”

He examines his fingernails. “And I don’t ask much in return. It’s a gift, really. What formerly corporeal, exploration-obsessed female _wouldn’t_ leap at the chance to spend eternity exploring the wonders of the multiverse with me?”

Kathryn crosses her arms. “You mean, you’ll only tell me what happened to Voyager if I agree to become a Q.”

“Well, gee, Kathy.” Q looks miffed. “You make it sound like an unpleasant duty, instead of the opportunity of several billion lifetimes.”

“But I don’t want to be Q. I might become like … like…” She trails off.

Q raises an eyebrow at her. “Yes?”

“Like _you_ ,” she finishes, raising her chin. “And forgive me, Q, but that’s not something I aspire to.”

Q looks hurt, then brightens. “That’s only because you don’t understand what it’s like to be Q. You’ve only experienced the Continuum in human terms. If you could just experience the essence of Q-ness, you’d change your mind.”

“How am I supposed to do that if I’m not Q?” Kathryn asks, then shakes her head in frustration. “It’s all academic, anyway.”

“Not necessarily,” Q says, excited. “Let me show you.” And he snaps his fingers.

Kathryn dissolves, yet she is weighty with power. She is made of light and tethered to earth. She floats among the stars in the bottomless gravity of the ocean. She feels everything and the purity of nothing. She reaches out with her thoughts and grasps the truth of things she has never imagined. She is without form, but she tastes the sharpness of sensation. Pulsars are born in stellar nurseries, flare and die. Great creatures move through space, sucking stars in their wake. Single-celled organisms divide and conquer and evolve. A civilisation struggles from red sand and almost destroys itself in rage and fear until logic prevails. Invaders march like ants across the surface of a planet, perfecting its people in a tidal wave of metal victory. A forgotten race of peacemakers fights its way out from under the corded grey skins of its oppressors. A tribe of nomads make their home on a far-flung green world, until a searing shock of light scorches them into shrivelled corpses. And there is so much, so much more. She sees, she feels. She knows. She is known. She understands …

… and it’s gone, and Q is sitting on his heels, wearing a self-satisfied smirk.

“Oh,” says Kathryn.

“So,” says Q, “what do you say?”

She barely hears him. She’s reeling, and all she wants is to grasp onto that all-knowing existence before it fades.

“I want …” she says, and shakes her head to clear the buzzing in her ears. Except the buzzing, and her ears, are only figurative, because she doesn’t actually have a body.

“Yes, Kathy?”

 _Captain_.

“What did you say?” she asks faintly.

“How about it?” Q says. “That was only a taste. Just imagine what it’ll be like for an eternity.”

 _Captain Janeway_.

Her mind tries to feel for it again, that indescribable tide of everything. But it’s ebbing, and what’s flowing in seems dull and sore and small, but somehow she knows it’s real.

“Time to decide, Kathy.”

 _Captain, you must wake up_.

“No, Q,” she says, even though it breaks her heart. “I was never meant for that.”

 _Wake up_.

=/\=

She wakes to the voice speaking inside her mind and the hand on her face. “Tuvok,” she says, and her own voice sounds small and weak. “What happened?”

Tuvok carefully takes his hand away from the points on her temple, cheekbone and jaw and regards her with solemn eyes. “Your neural pattern was ninety-two percent synchronised with that of the Kh’Laan performing the _kiaa’meral_. I was permitted to enter the chamber before your guide disconnected and attempt to separate you from the link.”

“You mind-melded with me?”

“After I had exhausted all other options. Yes.”

She regards him. “That was a somewhat reckless course of action, Mr Tuvok. The effect on you was unpredictable. You could have been permanently injured.”

“I judged the level of risk to be acceptable. Losing you, however, is not.”

She smiles. “Thank you, old friend.”

“May I ask –”

“What I saw?” she interrupts, and sighs. “I don’t really have the words to explain it. I saw … I saw _everything_. The beginning and the end of the universe, the birth of every species that ever existed, the rise and fall of every civilisation in every thread of the multiverse. I saw what it was like to be Q.”

Tuvok raises an eyebrow. “A fascinating experience.”

“And a very tempting one,” she agrees. “Almost too tempting. I wanted to stay.”

“Perhaps that explains the advanced synchronisation of your brainwaves with the guide’s,” Tuvok suggests. “Previous scenarios created for you have not been so appealing, but you were strongly invested in this one.”

“I heard you, telling me to wake up,” Kathryn answers. “If you hadn’t been there, I would have stayed.”

“You would have died.”

“Yes.” She touches his hand. “I never thought I’d say this, but sometimes satisfying one’s curiosity isn’t worth the price.”

“Are you sufficiently recovered?”

“I’m fine.”

“Then I will return to Voyager. Commander Chakotay will be anxious to hear my report. Your session exceeded forty hours in duration.”

Kathryn pales. “I had no idea.”

“Captain, I am concerned. If I am not present for the remaining three sessions, there may be no way to extract you should your neural pattern become synchronous with the guide’s again. Perhaps I should remain.”

“No. You need to rest, Tuvok. I’ll be fine. Just … send down someone who’ll know how to reach me.”

“Understood,” says Tuvok, and makes way for the next guide.

 


	6. Guilt

**VI.**   
**Guilt**

She reminds herself that she is a starship captain and as such she is no stranger to the loss of those under her command. She has ordered crewmen into danger and death many times, and though she mourns each one of them still, she knows that this is part of the job. But this situation is not at all the same, and she can’t escape the fact that it is murder.

“Please sit down on the biobed.”

He complies. He doesn’t plead for his life, not anymore; he knows there’s no point. She can’t help but admire him as he faces his death with composure. The least she can do is look him in the eye as she empties the hypospray into his neck.

She moves to the console. “Initiating separation sequence,” she says, and her voice is steady. “Energising.”

The end of his existence is as undramatic as its beginning, and when he’s gone and two figures materialise in his place, she doesn’t permit the slightest crack in the mask of her expression.

“Mr Tuvok, Mr Neelix,” she says. “It’s good to have you back.”

Then she walks out of Sickbay before her traitorous stomach can revolt at what she’s just done.

She returns immediately to the bridge and tells herself it’s so the crew can see that she believes in the absolute rightness of her decision, that she hasn’t felt a moment’s hesitation. In truth it’s both her comfort and her penance. She’s the captain before the woman everywhere on this ship, but nowhere more so than on the bridge, and it’s the place where she usually needs to expend the least effort to be nothing but the captain. It’s also the place where she can least afford to fall apart, and so she forces herself to step out of the turbolift and take her chair without a moment’s break in her measured stride, to feel their eyes averting, and breathe through the suffocating silence as though this were just an ordinary day in the Delta quadrant.

She sees Tuvix in her dreams that night. She’d expected that, but it doesn’t make it any easier. In her dream, she’s sitting at her usual table in the mess hall and he serves her over-spiced tomato soup and takes the PADD from her hand, chiding her for working through dinner, then gives her a tactical report that’s peppered with dry insight. Then he places a single orchid on the table before her and asks her to wear it to his execution. She struggles into wakefulness in her silent bed, gasping, shame squeezing her heart like a fist.

It’s hours before her alarm but she gets up anyway, showers and goes to work in her ready room before the start of her shift. She’s making her third trip to the replicator for coffee, absently scanning an engineering report, when she hears him speak.

“You look tired, Captain.”

She whirls, and he’s sitting there solid as life in her chair. She drops the cup, coffee soaking heedlessly into the carpet as she stares at him. She squeezes her eyes shut and when she opens them, he’s gone.

Later in Engineering, as she’s helping B’Elanna run a diagnostic on the warp core, he appears from behind her station, tapping into a PADD as though him being there is the most natural thing in the world. She gasps, and B’Elanna asks if she’s all right, and when she turns back from answering her, he’s gone again.

She dreams of him again that night.

He appears at frequent but always unpredictable intervals after that. In her sonic shower, beside her on the bridge when Chakotay’s chair is empty, walking down a corridor. Once, a crewman enters the mess hall galley as she’s shoving her balled fists into her eyes to scrub the vision away and she has to pretend she got spice in her eye, turning away so the crewman won’t see the naked terror on her face.

She can barely stand to be in the same room as Tuvok or Neelix anymore.

Chakotay starts asking about the dark shadows under her eyes, the way she darts quick glances over her shoulder. She tells him she’ll see the Doctor for a sleeping aid, but she knows sleep will provide no respite. She invites Chakotay to her cabin for dinner, hoping to stave off Tuvix’s appearances with his company. “You look tired, Captain,” Chakotay says, concerned, and all she can hear is Tuvix’s laughter.

She understands that she’s losing her mind.

Several weeks after the execution of Tuvix, Kathryn lies in her bed while he perches on the edge of it, watching her with a faint smile that belies the accusation in his eyes. “You’re going to have to live with this, Captain,” he says softly. She begins to weep.

When the alarm wakes her the next morning after the now-expected night of fitful dreams, she shuts it off and doesn’t get out of bed. She instructs the computer to inform Chakotay that she’s taking the day off. As she sinks back into sleep, she hears Tuvix murmur, “I forgive you.”

She doesn’t leave her bed the next day, either; she lies in a twilight sleep and tries not to see Tuvix’s reproachful eyes. She thinks about the choice she made and remembers another choice she didn’t make, an indecision that killed two people she loved. She wonders if she is punishing herself for her killing of Tuvix or for that long-ago and equally fatal reluctance to choose.

She suspects she is damned either way.

When she doesn’t report for duty on the third day, Chakotay breaks into her quarters and has her beamed to Sickbay, where the Doctor relieves her of duty on medical grounds and prescribes a course of antidepressants, anti-psychotics and counselling. He suggests Vulcan meditations, but she can’t bear to be alone with Tuvok, so Chakotay learns some of the basic techniques and when she’s released to her quarters, he meditates with her as often as he can.

She tells him it helps, and it does; she tells him she’s getting better, and she is. She begins to show an interest in the ship, the crew; she asks him for reports and he brings her armfuls of PADDs. It takes some time, but she eventually allows a visit from Tuvok, and soon after she ventures to the mess hall for a meal and manages to sit at a table talking with Neelix. Some time after that she returns to the bridge, and Chakotay smiles as he transfers back her command codes.

 _You’re going to have to live with this, Captain_ , she hears Tuvix murmur, but only in her memory.

And she does.

=/\=

Kathryn blinks into awareness to find Ensign Paris crouching beside her holding a tricorder. “You’re awake,” he says, sounding pleased.

“Tom.” She clears her throat, pulls herself upright, her arms around her knees. “How long this time?”

“About four hours.”

She shakes her head; it had felt like months, but she’s given up trying to make sense of the passage of time during the _kiaa’meral_. “I can’t say I’m sorry that session is over.”

“Want to tell me about it?” Tom flips the tricorder closed and places it on the floor, resting his folded arms on the side of the tub. She hesitates, and he says, “No pressure, Captain. But I’m a pretty good listener, and I can keep my mouth shut.”

“It was about Tuvix,” she blurts before she can second-guess herself. “The way I reacted after I ki- after I performed the separation. In the scenario I saw, I let the guilt of it devastate me. I couldn’t function, and I …” She meets his gaze. “I became clinically depressed. I wouldn’t leave my quarters, and the Doctor had to intervene with medication.”

“But that’s not what really happened,” he says, and she realises it’s half a question.

“No,” she assures him. “It was very difficult, don’t misunderstand me. I re-examined my decision for a long time. But I couldn’t indulge myself in feelings of guilt and remorse. I had a responsibility to the crew.”

He watches her for a few moments, then says mildly, “The thing about guilt is, it can come back to bite you when you least expect it. Even when you think you’ve put the demons to rest.”

She looks at him, consideringly. “Yes, it does. I suppose we both know that.”

“I won’t lie to you, Captain,” Tom says softly. “Nothing you’ll ever do will make up for that one single choice you made. You’ll bear that guilt forever and it may never get any easier. The thing is, it’s not supposed to get easier. It’s just supposed to weigh into all of the choices you make afterwards.”

She takes that in, and she can’t help smiling at him. “When did you get so wise, Ensign?”

He grins. “Captain, please. I have a reputation to uphold.”

Kathryn laughs, then squeezes his hand impulsively. “Tom, in case you ever have cause to doubt it,” she pauses to brush her gaze over the single pip on his collar, “I’m proud of you. And thank you.”

“For what?”

She shrugs. “For being a good listener.”

“Anytime, Captain,” he says softly.

She watches him leave, and the Kh’Laan melt back into the room.

 


	7. Betrayal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter contains major character deaths.

**VII.**  
**Betrayal**

Early in the third year of Voyager’s journey, they encounter the unstable Delta quadrant exit point of the Barzan wormhole. They discover two Ferengi manipulating a nearby pre-warp society for profit and beam them onto Voyager, intending to bring them back to the Alpha quadrant through the wormhole. The Ferengi manage to escape, but a piloting error causes them to crash-land on an uninhabited moon, and Voyager sails through the wormhole to emerge triumphant within hailing range of Barzan II.

The news travels fast. Within eight hours they are greeted by a Starfleet scout ship, the Nova-class USS Blake. It is carrying Vice Admiral Hayes, who happens to be catching a ride home after an inspection of Starbase 54. Hayes welcomes Voyager home and requests an immediate audience with its captain.

Kathryn beams over to the Blake. She explains their method of transport to the Delta quadrant and their fortuitous discovery of the wormhole that brought them home, then provides Hayes with a brief sketch of Voyager’s adventures along the way, as well as the integration of the Maquis, Tom Paris, and two Delta quadrant natives into her crew. She is unsurprised that Hayes’ spine straightens at this. He requests background information on Neelix and Kes, and questions her thoroughly regarding the parolee Paris, but it’s obvious to her that he’s leading into his main topic of interest. She decides to head him off at the pass and bluntly informs him that the posts of chief engineer and first officer, left vacant by the deaths of her original crewmembers, have been filled by former members of the Maquis cell she was sent to track down. Hayes is unable to completely hide his reaction when Kathryn coolly informs him that in fact, the Maquis renegade Chakotay is in charge of her ship at this very moment.

Hayes regards her in silence for a long moment, then taps his commbadge and instructs Captain Mendoza to implement Protocol Alpha. Two security officers appear in the briefing room. Kathryn looks at them questioningly, then turns back to Hayes, who stands. “Captain, please accompany these officers to the medical bay.” She begins to protest, but Hayes holds up a hand. “This will go much better for you if you comply.”

In Sickbay the Blake’s CMO draws her blood into a test tube, holds it up and gives it a small shake, then nods to the security officers. Kathryn is mystified, but when she asks for an explanation the doctor merely answers that they’re checking she’s human. The guards return her to the briefing room, where Hayes and Mendoza wait. Kathryn demands to know what’s going on.

“The Maquis prisoners are being detained in the Blake’s cargo bay,” Hayes replies. “Your aliens are in the brig. The remainder of your crew have been confined to quarters until we can verify their identities.”

Kathryn is furious. She tackles the second indignity first. “Neelix and Kes are vital members of my crew and no threat to Starfleet. What right do you have to imprison them?”

Mendoza answers calmly, “If after assessment they indeed prove to be non-threatening, Captain, rest assured they will be free to go.”

“And my crew? Why are they being confined to quarters? What testing are they undergoing and why did your doctor sample my blood?”

Hayes steps in. “Captain, your untimely trip to the other side of the galaxy has left you uninformed about the current situation in this quadrant. You will be fully debriefed in due course. I assure you, these precautions are necessary.”

“Then that leaves only the former Maquis. I’d like to know what will happen to them.”

“The Maquis are traitors and terrorists,” Hayes replies coldly. “They will be transferred to a penal institution and will stand trial for crimes against the Federation and its allies.”

Kathryn’s eyes flash. “Commander Chakotay and his former crew are fine officers without whom Voyager would not be here. They have proved their allegiance to me and their commitment to following Starfleet regulations since the moment they joined my crew.”

“Save it for the Board of Inquiry, Captain Janeway,” Mendoza says coldly, and Kathryn’s head jerks up.

“I’m being court-martialled?”

But Mendoza declines to say anything further, and Hayes waves over the security officers, who escort Kathryn to unused crew quarters on the Blake and take up their posts outside her door. She prowls the room, but communications have been disabled, and no matter how sweetly she talks to the replicator it won’t produce anything more potent than coffee.

It takes a week to reach Earth, and when they get there Kathryn has still not been allowed contact with any of her crew. By the time she’s escorted into Starfleet HQ, she’s worked her way through spitting mad to cold and deadly. She’s sequestered in a room with five officers of Vice Admiral rank or above, who have clearly familiarised themselves with her logs from the previous two years and begin grilling her immediately. They start by demanding an explanation for her transgression against the Prime Directive in destroying the Caretaker’s array and move on through her contact with the Romulan scientist Telek R’Mor through the time-displaced wormhole and her attempt to form an alliance with a Kazon sect. By the time they start interrogating her about Seska, she realises the sick knot in her stomach is no longer anger but anxiety. But it’s only when they begin questioning her closely about the weeks she and Chakotay were stranded on the quarantine planet that her nervousness blossoms into fear.

They believe she’s been compromised, she realises, that she is and always has been a Maquis sympathiser. They think she and Chakotay have been lovers since the early days of the journey. They even suspect that she never intended, when ordered to search for Chakotay’s ship in the Badlands, to take him and his crew into custody. And no matter how strongly she insists that she had every intention of following her orders, how angrily she defends her decisions in the Delta quadrant, or how vociferously she denies that her relationship with her first officer was anything but professional, it appears that their minds have already been made up. She is stood down from active duty for an indeterminate period pending further investigation, demoted to the rank of Commander and advised that she is very unlikely to ever be given command of a starship again.

Shell-shocked at this betrayal by the organisation she has idolised all her life, she’s almost too numb to protest at the similar treatment extended to her crew, and is in any case powerless to intervene. The Starfleeters are coldly debriefed, allocated two weeks’ leave apiece and told not to leave Earth until ordered otherwise; at the end of their leave, most are assigned to starships or stations spread across the quadrant, with no two Voyager crewmen being assigned to the same base. The EMH’s program is decompiled. Kes and Neelix become guests of Starfleet Intelligence; when Kathryn tries to contact them she is informed that access is restricted to officers with a security clearance far above hers. Tom Paris is immediately returned to New Zealand, despite his original sentence being long served, pending further charges of conspiracy to commit as-yet unspecified crimes against the Federation. And the Maquis are remanded to a high-security facility orbiting Sycorax. No matter what strings she pulls or favours she calls in, Kathryn cannot uncover any more useful information than their location.

When she finally drags herself out of her traumatised daze and begins to get angry again, she realises that this is not the Federation she left a little over two years ago. The ever-uneasy peace treaty with Cardassia is on the verge of disintegrating, the Klingon Empire has revoked the Khitomer Accords, and Starfleet believes war with the Dominion is inevitable. Several months before Voyager’s return, Earth was placed temporarily under martial law when it was believed that changelings had infiltrated Starfleet; Kathryn recalls Admiral Hayes’ insistence on testing the Voyager crew’s blood to confirm their humanoid status almost immediately after the ship entered the Alpha quadrant, and finally begins to understand the atmosphere of paranoia and fear her unwitting crew has returned to. She begins to read every datastream she can get her hands on from the Cardassian front and Deep Space Nine, and realises that the Maquis, with their attacks against Cardassian targets and their unofficial alliance with the Klingons, are the unstable element in this precarious political landscape. Voyager’s Maquis could not have returned to the quadrant at a more unforgiving time.

She reaches out again to the people she believed were her friends and allies in the Admiralty, hoping to help Chakotay and his crew in some small way, and soon finds that she has few friends left in Starfleet. Even Admiral Paris, perhaps still smarting from the re-incarceration of his son, curtly tells her that her Maquis are the lucky ones, to be in prison instead of facing almost certain death at the hands of one of the major Alpha quadrant powers. And then one night three months after Voyager’s return, tired and dispirited, she comes home from yet another interrogation session to find a strange woman in her apartment.

The woman’s name is Sveta, and she has a plan to break Chakotay’s crew out of prison, but she needs Kathryn’s help. It’s risky in the extreme and may involve injuring or killing Starfleet officers. It will spell the end of Kathryn’s career in Starfleet, and if caught, her freedom.

Kathryn agrees.

One week later she boards a shuttle to Jupiter Station. Once there, she dresses in civilian clothes, changes the colour of her hair and eyes and registers under an assumed name as a passenger on a Bolian freighter heading for Denobula. Sveta and several Maquis comrades await her in three small fighter vessels concealed in the freighter’s cargo bay, where Kathryn will hand over stolen Starfleet credentials; these will enable them to break through shield and sensor grids once the fighters reach the prison facility at Sycorax. Kathryn herself will change ships again at Denobula, heading eventually for Bajor.

The Bolian captain, a Maquis sympathiser, will allow Sveta’s team to depart the cargo bay once the freighter reaches a particular set of coordinates among the moons orbiting Uranus. The rescue team will beam in, liberate Chakotay’s cell and escape with them in the fighter ships, rendezvous with a Betazoid medical transport on the other side of the Oort cloud, and break for freedom.

At least, that’s the plan. And up to a point, it goes surprisingly like clockwork. But when the freighter docks at the Denobulan spaceport, Kathryn is arrested and returned to Earth.

She is brought before Admiral Nechayev, head of the Maquis taskforce, and told she is going to prison unless she discloses Sveta’s plan. Realising that this line of questioning must mean Sveta succeeded and Chakotay is free, she calmly declines. So Nechayev leans forward and coldly informs her that Starfleet Intelligence predicts Cardassia intends to forge an alliance with the Dominion, and if that comes to pass, the Maquis will be caught in the crossfire, swatted down like so many insignificant gnats. If Kathryn wants any of her fugitive friends to survive, their only hope is to be captured and returned to their Federation prison.

Nechayev has pushed the right button. Swallowing a silent prayer for forgiveness, Kathryn gives them up.

Chakotay, Sveta, Torres, Ayala and a number of others are apprehended by Starfleet patrols several days later and brought back to stand trial on Earth. Kathryn, pardoned but retained indefinitely by Starfleet as a security risk, is called as a witness. She praises the Maquis’ service on Voyager, describes her horror at their imprisonment and explains her part in the jailbreak and subsequent decision to assist Starfleet in re-capturing them, although she has been ordered to omit Nechayev’s classified predictions about the Cardassian alliance. When she is excused from the witness stand, B’Elanna spits on the floor in front of her. Kathryn meets Chakotay’s eyes, and wishes she hadn’t. She knows in that moment that Chakotay will never forgive her.

A month after the trial and incarceration of her former crewmates, the alliance between Cardassia and the Dominion is made, and Jem’Hadar warships attack the Maquis bases and colonies, killing all but a handful. The Alpha quadrant goes to war. Kathryn begs to be sent to the frontlines, but she is a rogue element. Starfleet assigns her to a paper-pushing job at HQ where they can keep her under control. She watches the datastreams. Friends and former colleagues die in battle – Tuvok, Megan Delaney, Lyndsay Ballard, Harry Kim. Tom Paris is released from prison and dies in a bar fight in Rio de Janeiro. Then the Breen attack Earth, and her mother, her sister and her sister’s family are killed.

Kathryn has nobody left. When the war ends, she petitions the Federation Judiciary for clemency for the incarcerated Maquis, arguing that they were right about the Cardassians all along. As if Starfleet didn’t know that, or had any wish to be reminded of it. Her lobbying only increases her unpopularity with Starfleet Command and she is quietly forced to accept an honourable discharge.

Some years later she has settled on Ronara Prime, in what used to be the Demilitarised Zone, where there is still plenty of work to be done in reversing the devastation wrought by the war, when she thinks she sees a familiar figure. It’s the set of the shoulders, the angle of the head. Heart pounding, she hurries through the dusty street. Her quarry stops, perhaps sensing her approach, and turns to face her. Her breath catches in her chest and she tries to speak, forms her lips into the shape of his name, but his eyes pass over her as though she isn’t there.

=/\=

She finds it hard to shake the cold hollow in her stomach when she comes back into consciousness this time. She turns to face her _tak’laan_ , wondering who it will be this time, which of the crew she betrayed. But it’s Seven of Nine, who never existed in the illusion she’s just lived, and she exhales a shaky breath of relief.

“Are you all right, Captain?”

Kathryn starts to nod, remembers the loneliness, the utter desolation of that life, and has to admit that she is not. “Give me a moment, Seven,” she murmurs. She concentrates on her breathing until she has herself back under control. Before Seven can ask, she begins to talk.

“Voyager got home after two years or so,” she says slowly, “but home was nothing like we’d hoped. You remember the first Command updates through the Midas array? The ones that told us about the Dominion’s alliance with Cardassia, and the war that followed?”

Seven nods.

“In the vision I saw, we arrived just in time for the beginning of it all. The Maquis were considered enemies and were imprisoned, as was Tom Paris. The rest of us were treated with suspicion. They thought we might be Founders. I suppose I can understand that reaction, considering the timing of Voyager’s arrival.”

“Similar, I imagine, to Starfleet’s likely reaction to a liberated Borg drone.”

Kathryn looks at her sharply. “I will never allow you to be treated that way, Seven.”

Seven pauses, then decides to employ the diplomacy the Doctor has been so careful to teach her. “I have no doubt you will protect me to the best of your ability, Captain.”

Kathryn sinks back in the tub with a sigh. “I can understand your concern, Seven. My protection didn’t do my crew much good in the timeline I saw.” She bites her lip. “I tried to help Chakotay and the others escape. But Starfleet caught me and convinced me to turn them in. They said if I didn’t, the Maquis would all be killed in the crossfire when the war started, and I couldn’t bear to let them all die. They never forgave me.” Kathryn closes her eyes.

“You betrayed them in order to save their lives,” says Seven. “I once made a similar choice.”

“You did,” Kathryn realises. “When the Queen discovered we were trying to steal a transwarp coil, and you agreed to return to the Borg as long as Voyager remained unassimilated.”

“Even if you had not rescued me,” Seven says softly, “I believe I would not have regretted that choice.”

“And I didn’t regret choosing to save their lives, either, in that scenario,” Kathryn admits. “But I lost them anyway, and that’s something I found very hard to live with.”

After a moment, Seven asks, “If Voyager were to reach Earth tomorrow, how do you believe Starfleet will react to those of us on board who were once Borg?”

Kathryn sighs. “I’d like to think that everyone on this ship will be treated with the same respect any Federation citizen should receive. But after what I saw in that session, Seven, I just don’t know. I hadn’t really thought about how the Federation must have changed since the Dominion War.” She decides not to tell Seven about the recent transmission from the real Admiral Hayes, requesting an update on the status of the Maquis, and shivers. “I will admit that perhaps I’ve been wilfully ignoring it, and that’s something I need to change. But I promise you that no matter what happens, I won’t let any harm come to you, or any of the crew.”

“Captain,” Seven says, and waits for Kathryn to meet her gaze, then says with quiet emphasis, “I trust you.”

Kathryn finds she can’t do anything but smile, and grasp Seven’s hand. Seven returns her pressure, then gently disengages. “I should return to duty.”

She pauses at the door, and adds, “Pleasant dreams, Captain.”

 


	8. Desire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter contains descriptions of (consensual) sex.

**VIII.**  
**Desire**

“Dinner plans?”

“Nothing special,” he admits. “Date with a replicator.”

“Cancel it. That’s an order.”

She’s already walking away, knowing he’s watching her go. She can hear in his voice that he knows something’s changed as he answers. “Aye, Captain.”

Later, after Tom’s bombshell and Harry’s impassioned plea, after she’s already decided that this is one more risk she’s willing to take – _needs_ to take – she faces Chakotay across the dinner table.

“Special occasion?” he asks, indicating the candles, the wine.

“Our last night in the Delta quadrant,” she murmurs, wondering if he’ll understand. Hoping he’ll understand. “I’d say that’s special enough.”

“You’ve made your decision,” he says, and she knows he hasn’t missed a thing.

She talks about the slipstream drive, as if that’s what they’re really talking about. He responds in kind, never taking his eyes off her, and it makes her bold. She says something overtly suggestive about dessert, wonders if she’s gone too far, pulls the conversation back. But then he says they can find another way home, they’ve waited this long, and she can’t stand it any longer. “Long enough,” she says, watching him watch her, “we’ve waited long enough.”

He puts down his glass.

“I know it’s a risk,” she whispers, and they both know this isn’t, never has been, about the slipstream flight. “Probably our biggest one yet. But I’m willing to take it.” She slips out of her chair and walks around the table to him, her hand out, trying not to tremble. “Are you with me?”

He takes her hand and stands slowly, facing her, inches apart. Her throat feels tight.

“Always,” he says, winding his fingers into hers as he pulls her toward him, and she lets her breath out on a sigh as he dips his head and finally, _finally_ kisses her.

She forgets everything else in that moment. Voyager, Earth, her own name, nothing matters but the touch of his lips on hers. She feels his fingers brush her face, tangle gently in her hair. She leans up into him, pressing her body into his, and in that instant the kiss is no longer at all light or tentative. She grips handfuls of his uniform jacket, her tongue in his mouth; his fingers tighten in her hair and he wraps his arm around her waist and hauls her closer. She can feel the heat of his body through thick layers of clothing. Her nipples are hard and she’s thrusting herself shamelessly against the solid thigh between her legs. She reaches for the fastening of her own uniform, yanks it open, grabs his hands and brings them to her breasts. She hears him growl low in his throat as his hands slide under her turtleneck, burning a path along her skin.

He breaks the kiss and she feels suddenly afraid; is she going too fast? But no, he’s ripping off his own jacket, pulling the undershirt over his head, reaching for her again. The turtleneck gets caught in her hair as he tugs it off and her pips scatter to the four winds. She fumbles with the fastening of his pants and he wrenches her close again, his mouth on her throat. He bites at her collarbone and her head falls backward, her back arched over his arm, offering her body up to his hands and mouth. One-handed, he works her pants over her hips as his mouth finds her breast, sucking at her nipple through her bra. She tries not to let her knees buckle, lifting each foot in turn so he can yank off her boots, shove the pants off and away. She feels his hands cup her ass and he’s lifting her, shifting to sit her on the table, her thighs around his hips. His teeth fasten on her neck. She gasps. Glassware tips and tinkles. Without taking his lips from her throat he sweeps out with one hand, and plates and glasses clatter to the floor.

She tries to pull him close to kiss him, but he pushes her firmly down as he sinks to his knees. She feels his hands grip her hips and his mouth skim the inside of her thigh and she tenses, quivering, holding her breath. At the first touch of his tongue she bucks violently and bites down on a moan. She’s almost embarrassed at the force of her response to him, but from the reflexive tightening of his fingers on her hips and the ragged exhale of his breath, she knows he’s as tightly wound as she is. He licks at her again and she’s writhing, her hands fisted in his hair, teetering on the edge. “Please,” she begs before he can send her over, trying to tug him upwards. “I want –”

So he rises between her legs and he’s hard, so hard and hot against her, nudging just inside her and then holding still, wrestling for control. She looks up at him and thinks that if she dies tomorrow, at least she will have had this.

“Chakotay,” she breathes, not sure if it’s his name or a prayer.

And then he’s sliding inside her, all the way home, and she reaches above her head to clutch the edge of the table and rocks her hips to meet his thrusts and she’s laughing, screaming, sobbing, she’s alive, she always knew it would be like this …

=/\=

… and she explodes into the real world, her mind grasping to hold onto that rush of liquid golden sensation, heart pounding. And somehow she knows, before she’s even fully aware that it was all just an illusion, who she’s going to see when she opens her eyes.

He’s staring at her as if he’s never really seen her before, something dark and naked in his eyes, and she cringes, bolts upright, wrapping her arms around herself reflexively. _God, did I just_ …

“Chakotay,” she says huskily, when she’s stopped trembling and gulping air.

He has to swallow, twice, before he can speak, but when he starts, “Kathryn, what –” she holds up a hand.

“Please. God, please don’t.”

It comes out more harshly than she intended. She watches him reining himself in, his face shutting down, and averts her eyes. “I’m sorry, Commander,” she says, and she’s relieved to hear only the slightest catch in her voice, “but this was one experience I’m not prepared to discuss.”

“All right,” he says. She tries not to notice that ragged edge in his tone. She hears him getting to his feet. “Your clothes are over here,” he says. “The guides said you can leave the tub as soon as those tubes disconnect themselves. There’s a shower room through this door.” He hesitates, but she can’t look at him. “I’ll wait outside. Take your time. Mekhaal wants to see you before we return to Voyager.”

“Thank you, Commander.” Her voice is as calm and steady as though she were on the bridge, but as soon as he leaves, she sinks her face into her hands, unsure if her cheeks are burning from shame or from the longing she fights so hard to hide every damned day of her life.

 


	9. Possibilities

**IX.**   
**Possibilities**

The First Prelate, having got what he wants from her, appears to have undergone a complete personality transplant. Gone is the arrogance, the barely-veiled insults, the none-too-subtle telepathic probing she put up with during their negotiations. Mekhaal is now expansive, almost obsequious in his treatment of her.

::Captain, your _kiaa’meral_ exceeded my expectations,:: he tells her. ::It is rare for us to encounter a species with such a variety of motivations. So many possibilities exist for you, so many roads not travelled.::

Kathryn has been wanting to ask a question since waking from her first session. “First Prelate, you talk about possibilities, but I was wondering if there’s a little more to it than that. What I experienced … Some of those visions could perhaps have been my reality if I’d made a different choice somewhere along the line, or if circumstances had turned out differently. Could I have been seeing some kind of parallel universes, or alternate timelines?”

::Everything you saw is a path that could have been taken, and therefore has been taken,:: Mekhaal replies, somewhat obliquely. ::Captain, you have never asked why my people practice the _kiaa’meral_ , but I will try to explain.::

For the first time since she met him, the Kh’Laan prelate folds back the hood of his cloak, revealing his face – pale-skinned, lilac-eyed, with elongated ears. And this time he speaks aloud, instead of in her mind.

“The Kh’Laan have not always existed in corporeal form,” he begins. “Long ago, we were composed of a form of energy. Over the millennia we evolved into the humanoid bodies you see before you. But we remain dependent on a mutated form of that energy, which is stored in our neural pathways. Each Kh’Laan is born with a finite store of neural energy and when it is depleted, we die, unless we can source it somewhere else.”

“You receive the energy telepathically,” Kathryn realises.

“Yes. Members of one of our sects travel the galaxy seeking species from which to receive the life-energy. The transmission process is most effective when the subject’s brain is hyper-stimulated.”

“Hence the _kiaa’meral_ ritual.” Kathryn frowns. “It seems a little … brutal.”

Mekhaal has the grace to avert his eyes. “I am sure it seemed so to you at times during the ritual, Captain. However, we make it our policy to avoid doing harm.”

“But you mentioned some species who’ve undergone the _kiaa’meral_ have ended up brain-damaged, or dead,” she points out.

“Yes, and we deeply regretted each of those instances. Only one member of each of those species was ever a victim, Captain. Once we learned that they could not withstand the _kiaa’meral_ , those species were off-limits.”

“That doesn’t make it right.”

“No. But can you honestly tell me you haven’t made any fatal mistakes in your efforts to keep your crew safe, Captain?”

“I suppose I can’t.”

“Now imagine knowing that without risking such mistakes, your entire species will eventually die out.”

Kathryn grudgingly concedes his point.

“I mentioned that we rarely encounter a species such as yours, with your ability to conjure up possibilities.”

“We call it imagination.”

“Humans do not possess great physical prowess or intellectual abilities in comparison to many species we have met, yet your race has clearly survived countless dangers and impediments. You travel the stars. You thrive. I believe your imagination is one of your greatest strengths. It makes you unique.”

For a moment Kathryn thinks of Seven, and hides a smile.

“And now it makes us unique,” Mekhaal continues. “Part of the benefit of the _kiaa’meral_ is that it enables the guides, for a time, to take on the most prominent capabilities of the subject species. The guides, in turn, transmit these strengths telepathically to all Kh’Laan. For a time, our entire species benefits from these gifts, and even when the energy dissipates we hold those memories in our consciousness, and we learn.”

Kathryn thinks of Seven’s former collective, and her smile fades. “I assume you take on the negative traits you explore in your subjects’ psyches, not just the positive?”

“Of course. We cannot appreciate the finer qualities of a species without accepting its baser traits.”

“Well.” Kathryn stands. “I can’t say I enjoyed exploring some of my baser traits, as you term them, First Prelate, but I will admit the learning experience went both ways. I hope you … got what you needed from me.”

Mekhaal stands as well, and bows formally from the waist. “Your ship has been stocked with the goods we agreed upon, Captain. I wish you a safe journey. And thank you.”

She nods, and taps her commbadge. “Janeway to Voyager. One to beam up.”

=/\=

“Six _days_?” She leaps up from the couch and paces the ready room. “I was down there for six days?”

“One hundred and forty-two hours and twenty-one minutes, to be precise, Captain,” Tuvok answers.

She sits, picks up her coffee cup, lowers it without drinking, folds her hands in her lap and looks down at them. “Tuvok, can I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

Kathryn looks up at him. “Did you select my _tak’laans_?”

“Commander Chakotay and I selected them, from the pool of volunteers.”

“Volunteers?”

“Yes, Captain. Approximately eighty percent of the crew offered to assist you. However, the Commander and I believed it likely that the _kiaa’meral_ could prove taxing and leave you emotionally vulnerable. We decided that only those crewmembers with whom you felt most comfortable should serve as _tak’laan_.”

Seven, Tom, Tuvok, Chakotay. “Why not B’Elanna?” she asks. “Why not Neelix or the Doctor?”

“We also felt that we should limit the participants to those of the crew who are not intimidated by you. That list is quite short.”

She arches an eyebrow at him. “Are you suggesting I don’t intimidate you, Tuvok?”

“Perhaps I spoke in haste.”

Kathryn lets go with a genuine, belly-deep laugh. Tuvok waits patiently for her to finish. Finally, wiping her eyes, she sobers.

“You were right,” she admits. “It was emotionally draining. Some of the things I saw, Tuvok – I feel as though I’ve had a lucky escape, not to have lived a life like that. And then there were the other visions.”

She gets up again, moving over to the viewport and staring out, arms wrapped around her body. “Even the sessions that were,” she searches for an appropriate word, “enjoyable left me feeling a little … exposed.” She hugs herself tighter and says softly, “I’m not sure how comfortable I’m going to be around … certain people for awhile.”

“I can assist you to manage your discomfort,” Tuvok answers, reminding her of what she’s asked him here to do. “Shall we begin?”

“Of course.” Kathryn moves over to sit by him and waits as he ignites the small meditation lamp. She imitates his pose – cross-legged, fingers steepled – and lets Tuvok’s calm voice wash over her. “Clear your mind, and concentrate on the flame …”

=/\=

The bridge is quiet when she emerges from her ready room, Tuvok in her wake. Tom sends her a quick smile but turns immediately back to the helm, and she sends him a silent thank you for his discretion. Kathryn takes her seat, flicking a brief glance at her first officer’s impassive profile.

“Heading, Mr Paris?”

“Heading one eight seven mark four, Captain. We’re ready to go home.”

“Warp seven, Tom. Engage.”

“Aye,” he says, and the stars become streaks.

She busies herself immediately with her console, skimming the section heads’ weekly reports. Torres is excited about the new, pure dilithium and estimates they’ve stored up a year’s worth of crystals. Neelix claims they won’t have to stop for food supplies for three months. Seven states that the Kh’Laan have supplied Voyager with star maps that span four hundred sectors and will add to the perfection of the ship’s astrometric database. Chakotay requests a meeting with her at 1900 hours.

She flicks another sidelong glance at him, so self-contained beside her, his fingers moving over a PADD. She remembers how they moved on her breasts, holding her hips, and has to close her eyes for a moment. Silently damning the Kh’Laan, she accepts his meeting request. She’s tempted to suggest they meet in the mess hall, where it’s safe, then laughs inwardly at her delusion that he could ever be safe.

She thinks about paths not taken, and possibilities, and wonders if it’s not too late to choose a different path.

 


End file.
